Desire.

Desire was the problem. Of all the demons who plagued her, only Desire was wearing her down. Her father had taught her well how to turn aside the offers of demons. But he had never taken Desire to be a serious foe. She was a weaker demon. Not quite a bottom-feeder like Sloth, but nothing too serious. Or so Malcolm Hawke had thought.

"Whatever she offers is better earned through hard work and study. Remember that, Andra," her father said—Had said! Had! He is not here now. This is the Fade. "You are my living proof that a mage can live outside the Circle. I'm so proud of you!"

He rested his hand on her shoulder and she shrugged away. "Dad would never have said that," she hissed, her focus still on the desire demon before her that had been Bethany—No, it hadn't. It had LOOKED like Bethany before it revealed it's true form. She circled it warily with her staff.

The fight was going well. She was going to win. But at some point in the fight, her father—the demon that looks like your father—had turned up to cheer her on. She couldn't have said exactly when. At some point Merril and Varric had been here too. And Aveline. She'd always wished her father could have met Aveline. And now he had. But something about that seemed wrong. She needed to remember. But she couldn't remember why.

"She's dropped her shields. Go, Andra, go! Don't cast. No magic. Use the staff," her father—the demon—shouted as the shields of the desire demon before her flickered and fell. She nodded assent, to let him know she'd heard, before striking out hard for the demon's temple. Her staff made contact, and the desire demon's head reeled back. She was screaming, her hair and eyebrows flaming in rage. Hawke didn't wait, but whipped her staff around her body, landing a vicious blow to the demon's equestrian legs.

She fell. Not dead yet, though.

"Don't leave her," her father called. "Remember, never turn your back on a demon."

Remember. Remember. Her mind struggled. What was she to remember? Something important. But she wasn't sure. When had her father ever watched her fight? And why was she fighting now? And where had this desire demon come from?

Too many questions. Too much confusion. She didn't know. Couldn't think. Maybe if she killed this desire demon, she'd get a moment to catch her breath, and she could ask her father—No. Remember.

She shook her head, clearing sweat out of her eyes, and advanced on the demon in front of her. She raised her staff, intending to bring it down on the demon's windpipe. The shape flickered before her. Shifted. Changed.

Carver.

She gasped, froze.

Carver, coughing and wheezing. His dark brown skin an ashen grey. Fine blue lines puffing up along his arms, his neck, his face.

Carver. Dying from the Blight.

It's a demon, her mind screamed at her. You just saw it change. Kill it. One less to deal with.

She knew it was true. This was the truth. She remembered. But, oh, it wore her brother's face. And killing her brother was the worst thing she had ever been forced to do in her life. She couldn't do it again. She couldn't.

"Sister," Carver spoke in a death-rattle, "help me."

"It's not Carver," she said, woodenly. But she threw her staff away all the same. She knew it wasn't Carver. But she knew she couldn't use the staff either. As long as the demon wore Carver's face, she simply couldn't kill it.

"You've saved your brother," her father said softly, coming up behind her.

Her father—no—embraced her. His smell flooded her senses; soap and leather and a touch of wet dog. She'd forgotten what he smelled like. How could you forget your own father's smell? she wondered.

The answer came, unbidden and unwelcome, Because he's been dead for ten years. You can forget a lot in ten years. This isn't Dad. It's another demon. The weight of this realization settled on her shoulders like plate mail, dragging her down.

"It's okay," he said softly. "It's over now." She reveled in the scent of him, the feel of his voice rumbling in his chest, the safety of his arms around her shoulders for a moment. She knew she shouldn't, but she needed that moment. Then she took a deep breath, and gently stepped out of his embrace.

"No, it isn't" she whispered. "You aren't real either." Her voice sounded flat, tired, and weak.

Her father—the demon—looked at her in puzzlement. "I'm as real as you are, Andra."

Remember. That's all you have to do. Remember. She did. Everything. Including the headlong fall into the Fade. The Fade. You are in the Fade.

But Desire was winning. She had so many wants. So many regrets. So many things she desperately wished were different.

"You aren't," she answered her father—the demon—"You're dead. Bethany is dead. Carver is dead. I killed him myself. And mom is dead. I'm alone."

"Honey," the voice came from her left. She'd been expecting it. Ever since Bethany had appeared, she'd been expecting this. But she flinched away from it like a physical blow. A cool hand touched her brow and the smell of lilacs filled the air. "Do you want to be alone?"

She closed her eyes and bit her lip. Don't look, don't look she whispered to herself. She remembered her mother's last few moments in sharp, horrific detail. She would never—could never—forget. "You're fooling yourself if you think you can make me believe you're my mother," she said, eyes still closed. "I'm not likely to forget her death any time soon."

"Oh, honey." The hand on her brow slid to her cheek. A thumb rubbed her cheek bone softly. "I know you won't. I'm not here to make you forget, sweetheart. I'm here to give you what you want. Your mother. Your family. I'm here so you won't be alone."

Hawke trembled against the familiar caress. Trembled at the words. This was different. A new game. Remembering wouldn't be enough.

"Reality has been so cruel to you," the voice continued. "Don't you deserve this? Look at me, sweetheart. I'm whole. And healthy. You wanted to save me. Here in the Fade, I am saved."

Hawke couldn't help it. Her eyes flickered opened. "Mom," she said in a strangled voice. But even as she did so, she backed away from her mother's touch.

It was true. Leandra Hawke, the first, was just as she had been before her kidnapping. Whole. Healthy. Smiling softly and sadly.

"It's a trick," Hawke told herself.

Her mother's smile—and it was her mother's smile, even if it wasn't her mother—turned sorrowful, and a bit rueful. "You trained her too well, Malcolm," she said to the demon wearing her father's face, "she's too wary." Her attention turned back to Hawke. "No trick, darling. Just a deal. I will give you what you want. And you will take me out of the Fade. We'll both be happy, then. Don't you think it's time for you to be happy, sweetheart?"

"You're dead."

"Not here."

"It's not real."

"True. But this is as close to having your real mother back as you are going to get, sweetheart." The smile was sympathetic with that slight twist to her lip that Hawke's mother had always had when she thought she knew better than her daughter. Indulgent, but also slightly exasperated. "I'm so sorry, Andra. You deserve better, but we don't always get what we deserve. Won't you take this deal, honey?"

"No," she forced herself to say. And saying it seemed to take all her remaining energy, all her will. She sat down heavily on the dusty Fereldan ground, her watery limbs unable to support her anymore.

"You failed to save me once, child. Will you really throw away your second chance? Take the deal."

"No," she whispered, curling into a protective ball, as though she could block the words, the guilt, that was physically striking her body. Never take a demon's offer. Never. You have to fight. They're demons. Or maybe all illusions of one demon. It doesn't matter. Kill them. Just kill them and it will be over.

"I can't. I won't. I can't watch them die again," she whimpered.

"You don't have to" her mother's voice promised, snaking past the hands she had clamped over her ears. "Just take the deal."

She glanced at Carver's—the demon that looks like Carver, and used to look like Bethany. Remember—body on the dust beside her. He was still gasping for breath. Her father had gone to him, and was holding his hand.

"Take the deal and your brother will be cured," her father whispered.

"No," she closed her eyes. Curled up tighter. Collected the tatters of her will around her and walled off her aching heart. "No."

She could not end this. She could not watch them die. Again. She wasn't strong enough to kill them while the wore the faces of the people she'd loved and lost. The people she desperately wanted back.

But she would not give in, either.